A Most Sinful Proposal (24 page)

T
he private sanitarium was tucked away in a quiet street in Kensington, a solid redbrick building with discreetly barred windows. Valentine was shown into the office by the superintendent himself, a competent-looking man of fifty or so years with a comfortable paunch, called Gouch.

“Sit down, Lord Kent.”

Valentine sat down on the chair opposite, trying not to let his impatience show. “How is Baron Von Hautt?”

“He is well enough, I believe. The mania appears to have subsided, but we keep him very quiet here, no excitement. I don’t know how he will react to seeing you, my lord. We must be very careful.”

Valentine didn’t want to be careful and he hoped Augustus would react by telling him everything he needed to know.

“Forgive me,” Superintendent Gouch’s eyes were watchful, “but are you and the baron related? It is just that he persists in calling you his brother. At first we thought it was just the term for his fellow man, brothers-in-arms and all that, but we’ve begun to believe he genuinely thinks you are his blood relative.
Is that a fact, or simply one of his many delusions?”

“Unfortunately it is a delusion,” Valentine replied. “But it is one I encouraged when he first spoke of it to me, and I am not adverse to keeping up the pretense if you think it will make it easier for me to converse with him. It is very important that I do so.”

Gouch hesitated. “May I ask why, Lord Kent?”

Valentine leaned forward. “I am about to marry.”

“Well, I must offer you my congratulations!”

He smiled and yet he found a little niggle of doubt, as he remembered Marissa’s recent introspection. But now was not the time to worry if she was having second thoughts.

“Thank you. When my wife comes to live at Abbey Thorne Manor I want her safe. The baron knows of someone in my household who is my enemy, and I cannot be happy until that person is found and removed.”

“I see. Yes, I quite understand your concern. I’m sorry I had to ask, my lord, but you see we must protect our patients as best we can.”

“I understand. Now, may I see the baron?”

The superintendent rose. “This way, Lord Kent. Follow me.”

Lady Bethany seemed to know exactly what she was looking for, and directed Marissa into a number of exclusive little establishments where the service was discreet and the staff eager to please. By the time the morning was over, she had ordered a wedding dress of exquisite pink satin and lace, match
ing slippers, and several outfits for their extended honeymoon.

“But won’t I need serge or something stronger for climbing and walking?” Marissa asked. “You know what father’s expeditions are like.” The thought depressed her but she knew from past experiences it was better to be prepared.

Surprisingly, Lady Bethany laughed. “I don’t think Kent has much climbing or walking in mind, my dear. He’s far more interested in discovering everything about you than delving into the local flora.”

Marissa felt her cheeks flushing. “Do you believe that, Grandmamma? How can you know?”

Lady Bethany lifted her eyebrows. “Surely you can see how besotted he is with you, Marissa?”

“I worry—a little—about…things. What if in a year or two he locks himself away in his study and I never see him? What if he insists on traipsing all over the country on wild searches for new roses?”

“My dear child, if you are worrying about that then you should act now, while he is putty in your hands. Insist he give up his roses or you will not marry him.”

“Oh no, I couldn’t!” she cried. “That is who he is, and if I am not prepared to marry him, roses and all, then I should tell him no.”

Lady Bethany shrugged. “As you will. Did you take my advice about the hat?” she added, with a sideways glance.

Marissa couldn’t help but smile. “I did. Thank you.”

“And if Kent was a hat…?”

Marissa laughed. “If he was a hat then I would purchase him in a heartbeat and—and never let him go.”

Her grandmother’s face softened. “Good,” she said, as if that was the end of that. She became preoccupied again, tapping her cheek with her fingertip. “Now, what else do we need? Nightdresses! And I believe I know exactly where to find them.”

Augustus was seated by a window, gazing out into the garden at the back of the house. His gray hair was cut shorter than before and he looked thinner, tall and gangly, rather than the imposing figure Valentine remembered from their previous encounters.

The superintendent spoke his name, and introduced his visitor in a jovial tone that rang false, and then, with a nod at Valentine, left them alone. Valentine walked over to the window, seating himself in a chair nearby, but Augustus did not make any sign that he knew he was there.

“How are you, Augustus?” he ventured at last.

Slowly, as if the words barely registered, the baron turned and looked at him with his cold, pale eyes.

“It’s Valentine,” he said, leaning forward. “Your brother.”

Augustus smiled, just a flicker of his lips, and then made a slight gesture toward the garden outside. “The rose isn’t there,” he said, his voice dry and husky. “I’ve checked.”

“The rose is lost,” Valentine replied, with a grimace. “We must both accept it.”

But Augustus didn’t seem willing to let it go. He
frowned and then shook his head. “I have seen it.”

Valentine felt shock ripple through him. He waited for the baron to go on, and when he didn’t, urged him with, “You’ve seen the Crusader’s Rose?”

“Yes.” The baron swallowed, as if his throat was too dry, and looking around Valentine saw a jug of water and a glass, and poured some out, handing it to him. He drank thirstily. “A year ago. In a church. There was a great bunch of roses and it was there, right there. I could hardly believe my eyes. But when I asked the vicar he did not know where it had come from, and although I questioned his wife, too, she could not say who had given it.”

Valentine sat, trying to think, wondering if it was true or simply one of Von Hautt’s fantasies. “So you never found the origin of the rose in the church?”

“No.”

“Where was this church?”

A sly look came over his face and he tightened his lips childishly, as though that way he could prevent any words from escaping.

“Augustus,” Valentine said with a sigh, “we are brothers, remember? You can tell me.”

But he shook his head.

Valentine let the silence continue a moment. He told himself there was no point in continuing with questions about the rose. What he really needed to do was ask Augustus about his accomplice.

“I need your help in a very important matter, Augustus.”

The pale eyes turned to him, watchful, curious, waiting.

“Who is it at Abbey Thorne Manor who helped
you? I know there was someone. Will you tell me their name?”

Augustus’s face brightened and he smiled. “Bo-bo,” he said promptly.

“Bo-bo? Who is Bo-bo?”

That secretive look again, and the overemphasized tightening of his lips.

“Don’t you want Bo-bo to come and visit you here?”

He did; his eyes gave him away.

“If Bo-bo is to visit you, you must tell me who Bo-bo is.”

The baron was torn. For a moment Valentine hoped he had won and that he would hear the name he desperately sought, but then the baron seemed to change his mind. Or lose interest. He shrugged and looked away, back to the window. His voice was so quiet Valentine had to strain to hear it.

“Bo-bo said never to tell.”

“Augustus…”

“The rose isn’t in the garden. I’ve checked. It isn’t there.”

Valentine tried again, and again, but it was no use. Augustus had moved on or forgotten or he simply wasn’t interested in telling him. Eventually he had to give up and leave the baron to his solitude. At least he had a name, as bizarre as it sounded.

Bo-bo. He repeated it to himself and thought it sounded vaguely familiar. For a time he tried hard to remember why, but the fleeting memory would not come to him and he had to let it go. Perhaps it was just wishful thinking.

He glanced back at the redbrick house as he left.
He knew he would come again—he felt a responsibility. Augustus may not be his flesh and blood brother but they were joined together in other ways.

Valentine even felt a sort of pity for him, now that the danger he’d posed had passed. The baron would never know the happiness that Valentine knew, would never have a future to look forward to. His life was effectively ended.

Valentine hoped that the baron didn’t understand that.

T
hat evening Marissa and her family dined at Valentine’s house in Mayfair—a house that was to be hers, too, soon enough. It was set in a square behind leafy gardens and looked grand enough to intimidate people far more socially ambitious than the Rotherhild’s. But Valentine soon put them all at ease.

“My family has lived here for a hundred years, as you can see by the rather drab portrait gallery upstairs. I’m afraid it has been a long time since the house entertained anyone other than relatives and the occasional friends.”

“You must throw a ball as soon as possible,” Lady Bethany declared, her sharp eyes darting about as she considered the possibilities.

“What a good idea,” George said. “Invite as many beautiful women as you can and I will choose one for my wife. It’s only fair after you stole mine, Valentine.”

“George, what nonsense,” Marissa retorted. “We would never have suited. We are much better as friends.”

George appeared shamefaced but anyone could
see he didn’t mean it, and he was soon smiling again.

Lord Jasper was also dining at the Mayfair house, and Marissa noticed her parents’ exchanging puzzled looks at the obvious affection shown between him and Lady Bethany.

“Don’t you think you’re a little old for such nonsense?” Marissa overheard her mother saying after the meal, when the women withdrew to the formal drawing room. “I thought maturity brought a degree of wisdom, Mother.”

“Good heavens, I am not dead yet!” Lady Bethany retorted.

Marissa was glad when the men joined them, and grateful when Valentine suggested she come with him for a stroll in the garden.

Alone with him, she took a deep breath, lifting her face to the evening sky. Valentine smiled, bending to kiss her. “Have you changed your mind about marrying me? I’m sorry about the size of the house. I know it must be daunting. We can sell it if you like, or give it to George.”

“I don’t mind about the house,” she said, reassuring herself as well as him. “And of course I haven’t changed my mind. I’m surprised
you
haven’t, now you’ve seen my family in all their eccentric glory.”

Valentine raised his eyebrows. “I find them rather intriguing. I have only ever had the elderly aunts who brought me and George up, so I’m enjoying expanding. George told you I have a tendency to imagine people I meet as roses.”

Marissa smiled. “He did. How do you imagine my family?”

“Your grandmother I can imagine quite easily. She is one of those wild roses that tends to throw out uncontrollable canes in all directions, but in the summer she’s covered with flowers of such a glorious perfume that everyone puts up with her bad manners.”

Marissa giggled. “And my father?”

“Well, I think he may be a tall bush rose with strong healthy foliage and a tendency to overwhelm any less vigorous plants in his vicinity.”

“Hmm, I quite agree. What about my mother?”

“Ah, she is a small climber, easily managed most of the time, but occasionally she will grow in a direction you do not wish her to and there is nothing you can do about it.”

Marissa laughed out loud. He observed her, eyes sparkling, before he leaned forward to kiss her.

She sobered. “And what of me, Valentine? What sort of rose am I?” She’d wanted to ask him that question ever since she met him, but some inner anxiety had always prevented her. She felt even more anxious as he observed her, a smile in his eyes.

“Marissa, you are an exquisite climbing rose upon a sunny garden wall, filling the air with the most beautiful scent, and your flowers are even more beautiful—full and generous and silky soft. There is no dishonesty about you, no artifice, and everyone who sees you loves you.”

Tears stung her eyes at his rose-colored vision of her. “Oh, Valentine, I wish I was like that.”

“What
is
it, Marissa?” He appeared genuinely concerned. “You don’t seem yourself. Please, tell me what is wrong?”

But she couldn’t; she wouldn’t.

“It is just that I’m longing to be with you and I hate this waiting.”

He kissed her again, more deeply, and she felt the warm tingle of desire flush her skin. But satisfaction of that desire was impossible, and she stepped away and shook her head.

There was a wicked gleam in his eyes. “There is a small summer house behind the orchard.”

She glanced in the direction he pointed, biting her lip.

“There is a rather uncomfortable daybed in there, but I took the precaution of asking the servants to see that everything was aired and clean.”

“Valentine…”

“Of course, if you’d prefer to remain chaste until the wedding, I understand.”

Marissa caught his hand in hers and began to run, hearing his soft laughter. The summer house was charming, a white timber froth set in a small wilderness section of the garden. Once inside, Valentine locked the door then drew the shutters over the windows before lighting a lamp. Soft light spilled over lush furnishings, and Marissa saw that the summer house was more like a sultan’s hideaway than the starkly furnished garden houses she’d known.

“Oh,” she whispered in delight.

He began to remove the combs and pins from her hair, running his fingers through the tumbled mass. “The first time I saw you,” he said, “I thought you the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“Did you?” She reached up to stroke his cheek, then stretched up to kiss him, using her tongue.

He groaned, drawing her closer. “I’m already missing you,” he said. “I need you in my arms, in my bed.”

She reached for his jacket, slipping it from his shoulders and over his arms. When he tried to reciprocate with her clothing, she caught his hands and shook her head. “No, it is my turn,” she insisted. “I’ve been dreaming of doing this. Let me. Please.”

He subsided, and she unbuttoned the top of his shirt, drawing it over his head, murmuring her admiration. She ran her hands over his chest, following with her lips and tongue, exploring the hard nubs of his nipples. She took her time, enjoying the texture and taste of his skin, breathing in his masculine scent.

“I am only mortal, minx,” he groaned at last.

Marissa looked up into his tense, flushed face and realized she may not have much longer to enjoy her power over him. With a grin, she reached to the buttons of his trousers, popping them open as slowly as she dared, while he looked down at her fingers, grinding his teeth.

She wrapped her hand around him, feeling the width and length and iron hardness. Leaning down, her hair shielding her face, she gently ran her tongue along him.

He caught up the silky tendrils and held them behind her head, and she realized he wanted to see what she was doing; that watching her was as exciting for him as this sense of control was for her. She slipped her mouth around him, freeing herself to do as she wished. He tensed, the muscles of his thighs
bunching, and she heard the hiss of his indrawn breath.

“Hmm.” She reached beneath the thick rod, exploring the balls, making him arch toward her. Her mouth took more of him in and she felt him give an involuntary thrust of his hips, seeking her moist heat.

Marissa knew he was enjoying what she was doing, and she was certainly enjoying it herself. When suddenly she found herself picked up and placed facedown on the daybed, it was a surprise. She protested, but he was already lifting up her skirts, sliding one arm under her hips, his fingers searching inside the opening of her bloomers.

Any protest she might have uttered died as she groaned and wriggled against him.

“I don’t want to ruin your clothing,” he said breathlessly.

“How…how dreadful that would be,” she panted.

She felt him kneel behind her, widening her thighs, and then the blunt head of his cock nudged against her entrance. Marissa held her breath, her whole body rigid with waiting…And then he entered her with one smooth motion, going deep inside her, filling her until she became a part of him.

His hands closed on her thighs, holding her firm while he withdrew, just as slowly, and thrust deep again. Marissa copied the rhythm, moving with him, quickening the pace when he threatened to slow it down again.

“Patience, minx,” he growled.

“You know that is not one of my virtues,” she gasped.

He chuckled and his hand slid between her thighs, rubbing at the slick folds, and then squeezing the swollen nub. She cried out with shocked ecstasy, almost collapsing completely, but he wasn’t finished with her yet.

As the tingles raced through her body, he was moving again. His hands cupped her breasts through her evening dress, and he said, in a rough, husky voice, “I wish you were naked, Marissa. I wish we were both naked. There are so many things I want to show you.”

Why couldn’t it always be like this? Marissa asked herself. When they were together, their bodies so in tune, she had no doubts.

Pleasure spiraled through her as he reached down to caress between her legs, and this time he joined her at the precipice, and they leaped together.

Valentine was sorry to have to hurry her, but he knew there would be questions asked as it was at the length of time they’d been gone. Quickly he straightened her clothes, casting a careful eye over her and nodding his approval. Then it was time for him to dress himself, buttoning his trousers over his still swollen cock, shrugging on his shirt and jacket and running a hand through his hair.

“How do I look?” he asked her.

She tipped her head to one side and that wonderful dimple appeared. “Perfect,” she said.

“Ah, but will your father think so,” he retorted, as he turned out the lamp and opened the shutters.

“You know he is ecstatic,” she teased. “He is planning to show you his collection, so beware.”

“Oh?” There was an interested gleam in his eyes.

“You
want
to see his collection,” Marissa groaned. “I should have known.”

“Marissa, you do know you are marrying a man whose life has been spent studying roses? I can’t change what I am.” He searched her face but this time she didn’t look away or try to hide her feelings from him.

“Of course I know. And I love you with all my heart. Haven’t I made that clear?” she said with a wicked glance. “Or should I show you again?”

He caught her hands before she could touch him. “As much as I’d love you to show me again,” he said huskily, “we have to go back. Stop tempting me, minx.”

Marissa watched him unlock the door, and followed him into the garden. The earthy smell and the sound of crickets greeted them.

“I spoke to Baron Von Hautt.” Valentine’s serious tone interrupted her pleasant thoughts. “He was lucid enough, but not particularly cooperative.”

“Did he tell you who the spy at the manor is?” she said, straight to the point as they strolled arm in arm back toward the house.

“Yes. Not that it made finding him, or her, any easier.”

“What do you mean?”

“The name he gave me was Bo-bo,” he said, with a lift of his eyebrows.

Marissa repeated it softly. “How strange. It sounds like a—a pet name.”

“That was what I thought.”

“Someone must know what it means, Valentine.”

“Let’s hope so,” he agreed.

They’d reached the house and their conversation had to be halted. As they made their way back to the drawing room, they came upon Morris, who had come up from Abbey Thorne Manor to take charge of the town house and run it in his inimitable style. He responded to Marissa’s greeting with a bow, while his gaze slid briefly over Valentine’s evening wear and his expression became pained.

“My lord, a note has come for you. I was told it was urgent.”

“Thank you, Morris.” Valentine took the folded piece of paper off the salver and opened it.

“How is everyone at Abbey Thorne Manor, Morris?” Marissa said, with a trace of longing she couldn’t hide.

“Very well, Miss Rotherhild. They are all, if I may be so bold, looking forward to the wedding.”

Valentine muttered a curse, causing Morris and Marissa to turn to him in surprise. He crumpled the sheet of paper in his fist. “Von Hautt has escaped. I don’t know how or why,” he went on, before Marissa could ask. “I need to go to the sanatorium and see the superintendent.”

“I will come with you,” Marissa said.

He opened his mouth to protest but she was determined and he must have seen it because he changed his mind, turning to Morris instead.

“Fetch the coach around, Morris, and make our apologies to our guests. Explain there’s been an urgent matter concerning a—a relative.”

“Very good, my lord,” Morris said, seemingly unperturbed.

Marissa reached for Valentine’s hand as Morris hurried away. He squeezed her fingers. “We must find him,” he said quietly. “We must.”